


Dark Red Love-Knot

by Chronicler



Series: Thramsay Pick ’n’ Mix [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Abusive Parents, Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Highwayman, Alternate Universe - Historical, Biting, British English, Dysfunctional Family, Endearments, Ghosts, Historical, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Love, M/M, POV Experimental, POV Outsider, Pansexual Character, Period-Typical Homophobia, Queer Character, Queer Themes, Queerphobia, Supernatural Elements, Tragic Romance, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-02
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-08-28 15:56:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8452546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chronicler/pseuds/Chronicler
Summary: The Kraken & Hound has stood, silent and still, for as long as anyone can remember. And it watches, watches the tales that play out within its walls.Its current resident, Theon Greyjoy, with his cornflower blue eyes and cornfield yellow hair, is playing out his own tragedy. Has fallen in love with the dashing highwayman, Ramsay Bolton, who the red-coated soldiers hunt, and who hunts his own prey.The inn has learnt that no such stories ever end well. Still, there is a hollow beauty in their telling.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A poemfic. Is there such a thing? You really should read the full poem, please, The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes: 
> 
> https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poems/detail/43187
> 
> Where my thing for highwaymen comes from:
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4B2a6l6wM2k
> 
> Thanks to Matty for beta reading.
> 
> I hadn't tried writing third person omniscience before, so I tried. It didn't go well, so I ended it quickly, it's only my first attempt. But I thought I'd post it anyway. And I'll try again.
> 
> Set in a bastard hybrid of Georgian England and Westeros by way of The Haunting of Hill House... It's all very meta...
> 
> Admittedly it should be a lot longer... But I guess some stories just fade away...

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
   
The Highwayman

 _And still of a winter’s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,_  
_When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,_  
_When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,_  
_A highwayman comes riding—_  
  _Riding—riding—_  
  _A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door._  
  
_Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard._  
_He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred._  
_He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there_  
_But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,_  
  _Bess, the landlord’s daughter,_  
_Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair._

_Alfred Noyes_

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

There is a young man looking at himself in the patchy, oxidized mirror hanging in his bedchamber. Hair the colour of the cornfield outside, he primps and preens, pulling curls back and tying them together with a dark red love knot.

‘Fancy boy,’ his father will call him, with a snarl and curl of his lip. But he means ‘sodomite,’ he said so to his brother. His brother who gives boiled sweets and gingerbread to little girls in return for their touches.

The youth’s sister will watch their father, her cheeks burning as her jaw clenches. ‘Theon,’ she will say, pulling him aside afterwards, into the hallway or pantry. Somewhere no-one can listen. But I will listen. Listen to her tell him, ‘Must you be such a selfish little prick? You’re supposed to be the _son_ , inherit the inn when father dies. You get _everything_ , and all you do is embarrass us! We all know what you do, everyone knows you act like a harlot and –’

But he will not be listening by then, lip curling, too like his father’s, he will find words to snap back at her. Tell her, ‘I see how you look at the milkmaids when they pass by,’ tell her, ‘you're just angry because I dare do it and you don’t!’

After she storms out he will sink to the ground, harsh as he wipes at his cheeks with the heels of his hands, and she will never know. Cornflower blue eyes gazing past my limewashed walls, he can see it, see his father proud of him, before it slips through his fingers. He never will make it real.

And so I watch it play out, just as I knew it would, as carriages clatter by over the cobblestones out front, and the sun dips below the horizon of the corn field beyond the walled yard out back. The sky blushing as deep a burgundy as the ribbon in his hair.

As always he ends up with flushed cheeks and lashes clumped together before he storms into the public part of the inn, behind the bar and past Violet, the pretty barmaid, her skirts swishing around her ankles. She used to capture his attention, but he doesn’t even notice now. She will be fine though, I see her whispering secrets to one of King George’s redcoats, he seems sweet on her.

Theon grabs a thick necked bottle of barley claret sparkling ruby as the sky, and hurries outside to the yard, slamming my wooden door behind him.

Pictures rattle and the thick glass in my windows shift.

They say it is the year of our Lord seventeen hundred and sixty-three. The Kraken & Hound, I have stood in this spot overlooking the shores of Pyke for as long as anyone can remember, the soil seeping up into the rough, rusty stone of my walls. And I will stand here a thousand years more, Drowned God willing. Beyond the village I sometimes hear the waves crashing to shore, heavy brine weighing down the air, but nothing beyond the cobblestones surrounding me quite seems real.

I watch Theon sit on the wooden bench and wait, swigging his wine and watching the crimson over the cornfield bleed to black.

‘Naughty little boy,’ a dark figure says and Theon jumps, wine spilling like blood. He didn’t notice the sound of hooves approaching, the black stallion now whinnying, tied to the gnarled oak tree. ‘Sitting out here on your own, any passing stranger could force themselves on you, ravish you like the whore you are.’ He grabs the shoulder of Theon’s frock coat and hauls him over to my wall, pushes him against it.

The newcomer grins, hat knocked to the ground, the moon lighting the scene. Black hair, brown boots, burgundy coat, a flash of white lace at his pale throat, but he blends into the shadows.

‘Ramsay – I was afraid you wouldn’t come,’ Theon says, breathless as the other man pulls at his clothes.

‘And miss your red lips?’ he grabs Theon’s bottom lip between his teeth, bites till he draws blood.

And Theon laughs, laughs as though it’s a game, laughs as he’s bitten down to his collarbone, laughs as the tragedy plays out.

‘I’ve a job to do tonight, gold along the highways; if you’re lucky I’ll bring you something pretty,’ Ramsay tells him. And Theon knows it will still be wet with blood, but can’t quite bring himself to care. Ramsay Bolton, notorious thief and killer, but _his_.

Beneath his clothes Theon’s body is a patchwork of scars, and Ramsay runs his fingers over them as he breathes against Theon’s ear, ‘Watch for me by moonlight.’ With a growl, he bites the lobe till it rips away, and he grins, blood dripping down his chin. A hollow light shining from his eyes, he spits it onto the cobbles as Theon gasps but doesn't let go. ‘Perhaps I'll steal you away,' Ramsay adds, one hand gripping Theon's throat. ‘Keep you tied up, down on all fours, a bitch waiting to be bred by your _lord_. Aye, you'd like that, wouldn't you?’ One hand grips Theon’s throat. ‘If you’re not here when I return, I’ll find you, follow you into _hell_ if I have to.’

Blood running down his neck and so hard in his britches it hurts, Theon hums in his throat, tries for a kiss he never will get.

And Ramsay just laughs, pulls away from Theon’s hands grasping his shirt, and climbs onto his horse. Has other prey to hunt tonight. Theon can wait, always waits.

It isn’t a surprise they both lie dead before the next sunset, copper red streaked over my floorboards and the road outside, blood wet on the hands of King George's men.

Still, my echoing hallways will, at least, never be empty. Ramsay returns each night, ‘You didn’t think you could get away, did you, lamb?’ he says. And Theon’s ghostly screams, well, they’re a comfort as I crumble and the scarlet fades over the corn.

**_The End_ **


End file.
